Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [134]
The dirt drive to the road had only the Lodge and, up at the road itself, the Gordimers' house. I went to the back door and knocked, knowing at this time of day they would be in the kitchen. Mr Gordimer opened it, dropping his sweat-stained hat over his head as he did so; the odour of home-cured bacon and fried eggs washed over me, making me smile involuntarily as I held out the keys.
“We're off this morning. Thank you for watching over everything so carefully.”
He took the keys from me and passed them over his shoulder to the figure behind him. I greeted his wife, whose stern face softened as she said, “I'm sorry we didn't have a chance to chat, Mary. I hope everything was satisfactory?”
“Absolutely perfect.”
Gordimer gave a sort of rumbling sound preparatory to speech, then came out with, “You'll be selling up?”
“I haven't decided yet. I'll most likely sell the place in the city, it's ridiculous to keep it standing empty, but if you two are willing to go on with the upkeep here I'll hang on to it for a while longer.”
“Of course we're happy to keep it tidy and safe for you,” Mrs Gordimer said, “for as long as you like. And if you want to have your lawyer drop us a line again to say you're coming, we'll put the milk in the ice-box, like always.”
“I appreciate it, Mrs Gordimer. And any of the bigger maintenance jobs that come along, I trust Mr Norbert's good at approving them.”
“Oh, yes, there's never been a problem. Last year when the roof started leaking—no, I'm a liar, it was two years ago now—all I had to do was drop a line and suggest it was a job too big for Willy here on his own and Mr Norbert wrote right back to say we should hire whoever we liked and send him the bills. Willy wanted to do it, of course, but we hired the son-in-law of Mr Jacko—remember him, at the post office? His daughter Melinda married a nice hard-working boy from San Mateo and though of course they live over there, the boy was happy to bring his crew here for a few days and do the job. With Willy to supervise, of course.”
Willy—Wilson, his name was, and the diminutive did not suit him—looked slightly abashed that he had not mounted the assault on the roof by himself, but I was glad his wife had put her veto on his active participation. I nodded my appreciation and made to ease myself back from the door, lest I be caught in the snare of Mrs Gordimer's words for the entire morning.
“Well,” I said, “it's lovely to see you two looking so well, and I'm sorry I can't stay longer. My friends decided that they have to get back, so we'll be off.”
“That is a pity, but I do understand, young people today are so busy. You just leave everything there, I'll pop in later and tidy it all away.”
“That's very good of you, Mrs Gordimer. Perhaps I'll manage to get down again before I leave.” I threw this last down as a sop to distract her, although it was a blatant lie. I had no intention of coming again, not for years. Maybe not ever.
Mrs Gordimer's continued barrage plucked at me, but slowly I moved back, further and further from her range.
However, it was Gordimer himself who stopped me. With another rumble, he summoned the following words: “Had some people here, asking questions.”
My feet, halfway down the steps, stopped feeling their way backward. “People?”
“Man and a woman. Few weeks ago.”
Mrs Gordimer's head inserted itself between us, staring at her husband in outrage. “There were people here and I didn't see them?”
“Day you left for your sister's. I was working on the boat-shed door, after dinner one night. Nearly dark. They came around the house, bold as brass. I sent them off.”
“Can you tell me about them? Did you get their names?”
“Nah. Just told 'em to leave.”
“What did they look like?”
“Didn't see him close, he stood off down the lawn with his back to me, like he was too good to do any talking. Had grey hair. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe forty,